The Pity Run
by GratefulInsomniac
Summary: Replacing the beginning of season 3, House challenges Cuddy to a race before his pain reemerges.


_A/N-Sorry for my extended absence. I have not forgotten about the epilogue to A Thousand Hands, I'll post that next (should be later this week). This is the one-shot I wrote for the help_lisa auction on LiveJournal. This story came from a great prompt from Megalisa, and then I decided to reverse the theme I used for my other season 3 fic. I included a piece of her original prompt at the end of the story. This is set at the very beginning of season 3—actually it would happen in place of the beginning of season 3. I hope you like it._

_I've mentioned before that I find it unlikely that House could run with so much missing muscle, but that's how it was in cannon, so I'm going with it._

*****I don't own the characters of House, MD. This fic contains adult situations and language.**

* * *

**-The Pity Run-**

Part of her couldn't help but be disappointed. She had done what he'd requested, authorized the ketamine treatment, and when he woke, he was actually doing better. He didn't swing by her office when he was released from the hospital several weeks earlier, nor did he call. Cameron had stopped by his apartment to see him, from what Cuddy had heard, and so had Wilson. She'd heard rumors that House had been seen running, actually _running,_ near his home and even somewhat close to the hospital. As much as she wanted to see this change with her own eyes, to witness his return to physical wholeness, she didn't stop by to see him either. Sure, she had authorized the treatment, but they weren't friends, they were colleagues without any sort of relationship outside of the hospital.

In the end, after a flurry of thinking and reasoning and questioning, she was happy that he was doing well but didn't foresee much of a change in their interactions. She wanted him to show up and gloat about the success of the treatment he suggested for himself or thank her for what she'd done or even just show up to be an ass, but, in the end, she didn't hear from him at all.

One Wednesday evening, she wanted to work off some tension after battling with a smug insurance rep who was making her life hell. She was on the court, her game was flawless against the woman across from her, a college student more than a decade Cuddy's junior. Taking two quick side steps and pulling back her racket, prepared to deliver the final blow to her competitor, something blocked the fluidity of her swing. As many times as she'd hoped to see him during the previous weeks, she was angry when he finally showed up, standing _on _the court of a match she was decisively winning, directly impeding her victory. Her hands, racket held in one, went out to her sides in exasperation, "You decide to show up _now_?"

"Need permission to do a brain biopsy."

"On whom?"

"My patient," House answered, holding out the tennis ball that she failed to hit when she encountered him.

"You have patients…while on medical leave?"

"Patients-s? No. Patient. One."

"Is this your clever way of telling me you're ready to come back?"

"No…it's my clever way of telling you that I need to do a brain biopsy."

Her eyes were looking at his leg and cane-less hand, but she refused to break their confrontation. She was used to it; it felt good to step back into their metaphorical boxing ring. "I can't authorize treatments on people who aren't patients."

"And I'd never think of asking for such a thing. You know how I adore your rules. This _is_ a patient. My three little doctor-lings tried to play without me. Now I need to clean up their mess, and by clean up their mess, I mean I need to do a brain biopsy."

"No," Cuddy answered, yanking the ball from his extended hand, "If you want to talk shop, you have to have a patient _and_ you have to be a working doctor at my hospital."

"Obviously."

"I don't sign authorizations for doctors who are on leave so they, in turn, can conduct very invasive procedures on patients they don't _have,_ while I'm in the middle of a tennis match."

She lobbed the ball to her competitor so the confused young woman could serve, eager to continue the game around him. A few volleys and Cuddy regained control. Just as she served, House ran over, blocking the return shot by actually plucking the ball from the air. He was shaking his hand to remove the sting and said, "That hurt."

"Good," she countered, trying to sound unrelentingly angry, but unable to completely hide the fact that seeing him move so quickly was beyond beautiful.

He handed her the ball, "I'll see you in two hours in your office so you can approve the brain biopsy I need to do."

"House-" she said, annoyance saturating her tone before he interrupted her.

"Now _that_ would be my clever way of telling you that I'm ready to come back."

"What makes you think I'm going back to the office after this?"

"What makes you think you might _not_ be going back to the office after this?"

She closed her eyes slowly, shaking her head with disbelief, "Fine, I'll see you in my office in two hours."

Once House was out of sight, she easily finished the game, shook her competitor's hand and decided she was done playing. When she went home to shower and get dressed in nicer clothes, she told herself it was because she was returning to the hospital and had to maintain her professional appearance.

When he showed up, it was obvious that he had been jogging. He was covered in perspiration, swinging the door open and barging into her office. She stared at him, her brain fluttering while she tried not to gawk at his confident, pain-free walk. He slapped a paper and a patient file on her desk, the paper was damp along the edges from his hand. "Sign there," he insisted as he pointed.

She looked at the wrinkled and sweat-dotted paper disapprovingly, "Why do you need to do a brain biopsy again? I don't know if you ever actually told me _why_ the patient needs one." He walked to the visitor's chair in front of her desk and just when she thought he was going to sit down, she ordered, "Do not under any circumstances sit your sweaty body on my chair."

Offering a challenging look, he retorted, "And if I do?"

"I can't approve a biopsy if I'm busy ordering new chairs."

"You'd put the life of a patient in jeopardy over a chair?"

"I love those chairs."

He started to sit again and she put out her hands, "Stop, you ass. I'll…I'll get a towel."

She disappeared into her bathroom for a moment, coming back out and draping two towels over the chair. He sat down victoriously, "It's easier to call your bluff than it is to call for takeout."

"Sorry that I actually care about our patients."

"No, _Wilson_ cares about patients. You care about avoiding lawsuits."

"I care about both. Tell me why you want to do the damn biopsy."

"There's an infection or something remarkably infection-like in the brain of my patient. It's resisting antibiotics, so I want to capture a tiny piece of it to grow, nurture and study…something to love as my own."

"So you can kill it?"

"Kill it or it kills my patient."

Cuddy looked through the file, nodding after a few moments while she pulled a stack of papers from her top drawer, "Get these filled out and have them down to HR before nine because you need to be an active employee in order to _have_ a patient. If you aren't ready to come back, have someone from your team submit the request and I'll approve. Agreed?"

"Oh, I'm ready to come back."

A smile flickered on her face as she leaned on her elbows, "You feel good?"

He nodded, and stood, "I saw your game earlier…I'm clearly in better shape than you."

"You think so?"

"Definitely. And I'll prove it. Tomorrow night, Riverfront Park, after your insurance subcommittee meeting, I challenge you to a race."

"You haven't been here in weeks, so how do you know I have an insurance subcommittee meeting tomorrow?"

"I know everything."

"Your stride is probably twice as long as mine."

"I was a cripple until a few weeks ago. Endurance and training are on your side. Besides, you'll have all of that pent up rage that you can unleash during our four mile run."

"I don't know."

"You _really_ are afraid to lose to me. Aren't you?" he taunted.

"I am _not _afraid to lose to you. Both because I am not that competitive and because I will not lose."

He smirked as he felt victory within his reach, "Of _course_ you aren't competitive."

"I thought Thursday nights you and Wilson played poker."

"He needs to branch out on his own…not be so dependent on me."

"Interesting theory. There's also the possibility that he told you he's co-running a support group on Thursday nights for newly diagnosed cancer patients and their families with the beautiful, witty, intelligent grief counselor who started working here last month."

"Is she your type?"

"Wilson's type."

"She's just teaming up with him to get close to me."

"Obviously," Cuddy scoffed, "I'm sure they were talking about _you_ last night at dinner. And when they went away last weekend."

"She's just trying to make it look good so he doesn't feel used. At least she'll be easy to impress after Wilson."

"He's an accomplished doctor, caring, sweet…"

"It's like the difference between fruit punch and a well-aged, dry wine. Both are _technically_ drinks."

"You're the fruit punch?"

"I'm the wine," he nodded without doubt.

"I like fruit punch."

"No you don't."

"Fine," she said as she straightened a stack of papers, "I'll run with you tomorrow night."

"Because you remembered how much you like well-aged, dry wine?"

"Because I feel sorry for you because you miss your best friend. You're feeling better and want to enjoy your improved health…he has other plans…"

"It's a pity run?"

"Perhaps. I'd also _really_ like to quash any fantasies that you might have that you can beat me."

"I'll win," House said, standing as he walked to the door, "I'll see you tomorrow night."

"I'll see you tomorrow _morning_, right? Are you coming back to work or not?"

"I'm coming back to work. Which means I'll be avoiding you all day, so…I'll see you tomorrow night."

Her scowl disappeared into a subtle smile and she folded her hands in front of her, "It's good to have you back."

"Loving that ketamine. You should listen to me more often."

* * *

Their first run, with each of them claiming victory, became a Thursday night ritual. It wasn't always running, but it was always something that House wasn't able to do after his infarction. They often grabbed dinner afterwards, still dressed in the sweaty clothes they competed in, usually at diners or cheap places that sold quick but delicious food. Although nothing technically changed in their adversarial working relationship, everyone around them seemed to notice the flirtier and more familiar space between them. Even they noticed the change, although neither of them acknowledged it aloud.

Almost two months after their Thursday night outings began, House was standing in the observation room, a small, closed container of food in hand, while his patient was in surgery. Wilson walked in, arms folded, asking in a casually dispassionate tone, "How's your patient?" until he noticed the container and questioned, "Are you…_eating _in here?"

"Nope," House responded without further explanation.

"Is it for me? Perhaps the first step in the very long process of repayment for all of the meals you've stolen from me? Maybe you've begun a twelve-step program for people who shamelessly take what isn't theirs?"

"You came here, without concrete evidence, to accuse me of stealing your lunch?" House interjected.

"That…and I heard an interesting rumor."

"Who is having an affair? Fling? Sex change? Divorce?"

"Fling. Actually…you are."

"People will always think we're sleeping together as long as you keep bringing leftovers to work for me."

"Not with _me_, with Cuddy."

House turned, unblinking while he stared down Wilson, "You have as much proof of that as you have that I steal your lunches."

"But yet…each seems remarkably plausible."

"Cuddy and I having a fling is _plausible_?"

"You were spotted at Jenny's Diner last Thursday night…_together_. The two of you are having an affair on the night of my support group in order to try to hide it from me."

"Because I would _never_ mercilessly rub it in your face if I was sexing up Cuddy every Thursday," House countered with annoyance.

"Oh, you would. You would rub it in my face…unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Unless you have actual feelings for her. Maybe it isn't just 'sexing up' and it is an actual affair or even…a _relationship_. You _would_ hide that."

"We hang out, we compete. I regularly enjoy kicking her ass at a variety of sports I can now play."

"And you perform your strange dance of _love_."

"Competition, rivalry, a battle of wills and egos. There is no dancing and there is no love."

"Knowing the two of you, sex could easily be a competitive sport."

"I'll run it past her," House answered flippantly before explaining, "We hang out for a few hours, we barely speak. It's harmless."

"You and Cuddy, voluntarily spending time together, alone, is never harmless. You're playing with fire. Don't get me wrong…it's a nice fire to play with. I think you should play with this fire more often, but don't pretend it's harmless."

The door to the observation room opened and Cuddy strode in with displeased purpose, first glancing down into the operating theater and then moving right into House's personal space without touching him. Pointing through the window at the patient, Cuddy asked, "Why does Mr. Mulawski look one-hundred pounds lighter, with a significantly darker skin tone than he had a few hours ago?" She looked down at the person on the table again and added, "It also appears that he has developed breasts."

House turned around to face her while Wilson looked on between them. House shrugged, commenting, "Hormones can make bodies do crazy things."

"Or you cancelled Mr. Mulawski's surgery this morning and scheduled Ms. Rogers for the procedure that I refused to authorize when you asked me yesterday afternoon."

"Gee, I hope they didn't grab the wrong patient."

"Why is Ms. Rogers here?"

"Who's Ms. Rogers again?" he asked as he took in the irate look from Cuddy and continued, "I'm guessing from the _extremely_ judgmental look on your face that I should know who Ms. Rogers is, so I'll guess. It's my patient, isn't it?"

"Why is she here, House?"

They heard Chase call from the operating room below, saying through the intercom, "You were right!"

House gloated, "She's here because I was right."

Cuddy looked like she was adrift between respect at his diagnosis and rage at his insubordination, so when she began to speak, he opened the container he had with him, scooped up some food and shoved the plastic spoon into her mouth. Her anger disappeared gradually as she chewed while the tastiness of the morsel was evident in her eyes. "What is that?"

"Food. This is our next dinner stop."

Cuddy looked at Wilson and back at House, confused. They never discussed their after work arrangements while other people were within earshot. They didn't verbally agree to keep it quiet, but neither of them wanted to draw attention to it either. She paused a bit before she answered, "After racquetball?"

"We have to postpone racquetball. There's a band I want to see tomorrow. It's the only night they're here."

"No problem," she said, sounding a little disappointed, "we'll reschedule."

"They serve this food there. I went last night to make sure they had something on the menu that you wouldn't sneer at."

"I don't _sneer_ at food."

"You do. You have a special look of disapproval just for certain undesirable food suggestions. Do you want to go or not?"

"You want me to go to the show _with_ you?"

"You don't have to!"

"No, I want to. It's just…"

"We'll keep it competitive. They have dart boards at the bar. Loser pays."

"Yea, OK," she agreed, her eyes still occasionally darting toward Wilson.

"I'll pick you up at seven."

"You'll pick me up?" she asked, astounded before she recovered her cool, "I mean yea, sure. Attire?"

"Lingerie," he suggested before he met her scowl and rephrased, "Casual. Jeans and a Cuddy-tight top will work."

She smiled, still a bit confused, but she turned abruptly and started to walk away, "I haven't forgotten about the patients. Fix this now. Make sure Mr. Mulawski is in surgery next and get the paperwork in order for Ms. Rogers. You know Ms. Rogers…your patient? Or did you forget her name already?"

House chuckled artificially, "Of course I know she's my patient. You just told me a few minutes ago." Cuddy looked like she could scream while she took two more steps toward the door and House said, almost sweetly, "See you tomorrow night."

She nodded as she opened the door, House could swear he saw her cheeks blush a little while she smiled over her shoulder at him. As soon as the door was shut, Wilson smiled widely, "You're going to try to tell me that _isn't_ a date?"

"It isn't."

"It is."

"It's Cuddy going along while I check out a band I wanted to see anyway."

"You don't need Cuddy to go along."

"I do if I want to beat her at darts so she has to pay for me."

"Interesting. See, if you were taking me, you'd just stiff me with the bill even if I won."

"You do know that she has a better body than you, right?"

"So you won't just admit that it's a date like any other normal, straight, red-blooded male?"

"Nope. I would have asked you to go, but you're busy with your grief counselor."

"I'll cancel so I can go with you," Wilson tested.

"Cuddy would be devastated."

Wilson's smug grin was impossible to miss, "It _is_ a date."

House handed the container of food to Wilson and walked away. When House steadied himself against the wall as he walked out the door, Wilson worried, "Is your leg bothering you? Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. I have to go fix things so I can enjoy my _not-a-date_ with Cuddy tomorrow night without her griping about work crap."

As his friend walked out the door, Wilson practically shouted, "It's a date!"

* * *

Cuddy wondered, as she sat in her subcommittee meeting, whether or not House's invitation was a date. Then thoughts of whether or not she _wanted_ it to be a date filled her mind. As she got into her car after the meeting, she decided that it was just a night out with a friend, exactly as it had been the last few weeks. They were friends, friends who skirted around what they knew was an attraction, but also coworkers who didn't want things between them to get ruined.

Of course she wasn't going to tell anyone that she'd tried on countless different outfits until she found the one she liked. There was nothing wrong with wanting to look good. In the end, she settled on something very close to what he'd suggested. She looked sexy but casual, hot but naturally so, and she was looking forward to a night of banter, admiration, competition and the tense but easy fun they seemed to find.

And then he didn't show. She didn't really expect punctuality, but she knew he wanted to make it to the show on time. She thought he was at the hospital, but the front desk verified that he had signed out earlier. She called him, but he didn't answer. At first she was irritated, assuming that he'd set up the whole thing in front of Wilson to prove that she was dumb enough to go on a date, only to have a good laugh at her expense. She envisioned House, sitting somewhere at a bar, laughing as he drank. Just when she was angriest about the entire situation, she felt it didn't make sense. House seemed to really enjoy their time together, and as much as she thought he'd deny it, he was flirting with her. He'd fling out little comments, designed to sound sexist, that were often veiled compliments. She noticed also, just the last few times that they went out, the way he'd hold a door or ask her where she wanted to go for food after their matches. Those things were subtle but noticeable.

She began to worry. Had he been in an accident? Was there an emergency? She called once more, and, when he didn't answer, she sent a text: _I'm fine with being stood up, but be an adult and tell me if you're OK. _

There was no reply, no call, no knock on her door. She called Wilson, who answered immediately, "You guys having fun?" he asked suggestively.

"Sorry, Wilson, I hit the wrong number," she said quickly before she hung up on him.

If Wilson was in on some sort of plot, she would have known. She also suspected that he would have actually warned her at some point or given her some clue that she was the butt of a joke. There was no questioning what she had to do, she got in her car and left. House's car and bike were outside of his apartment, and she realized that perhaps they'd grown too familiar. Maybe he felt she was getting too close and it made him pull back.

She knocked on his door, calmly announcing her name, but she didn't hear any movement in the apartment, so she tried the knob and found it open. Walking inside slowly, she heard a tense voice, "You couldn't take the hint?"

"Seriously, House, I thought we were beyond this kind of thing. You couldn't take two minutes to call or send a text to tell me that you aren't dead?"

She was squinting in the dark, looking for him when he spoke again, "I'm not dead. Now go away."

Rounding the sofa, she looked down to find him motionlessly resting. "Are you drunk?"

"No."

"High?"

"Not yet."

She stood by his feet, "You were the one who first suggested that we hang out…you wanted to run and play racquetball, and it was you who suggested getting food almost every Thursday. I didn't push you at any point."

"I know."

"It was also _you_ who suggested that we go out tonight."

"I know."

"And then you stood me up."

"Yup."

"So what happened? Why are you suddenly avoiding me? Did my complete lack of pressure or expectation come off as too _clingy_?" she jabbed.

"You think I'm here in the dark because of you?"

"Because you're trying to avoid me, absolutely."

"Narcissism at its finest."

"What else could it be, House? I can take the truth, so just tell me exactly what I did that was _so_ wrong or what changed overnight."

He ignored her, his arm over his eyes without a word of explanation. "Fine," she begrudgingly offered, "I'll go. If this is it, then I'm going to miss this weird friendship. I'll miss it because it was different and…fun. I had _fun_ with you. That probably makes me stupid or weak or whatever long string of derogatory adjectives you want to use to describe me, but I had a good time. I think you did too."

When turning to leave, she ran into his foot because it jutted off of the sofa. Then she heard him groan as his hand clenched down on his leg. Turning back, her eyes noticed the cane braced against the coffee table, something she hadn't seen since before he was shot. "What's going on?" she demanded worriedly.

"Nothing," he hissed through clenched teeth, but it was too late to hide.

Walking back to him, she whispered, "It's not working anymore, is it? The ketamine?"

He looked up, finally meeting her eyes again. The pain was obvious on his face, in the look in his eyes and the tightness of his jaw and the way his lips were firmly pressed together as he nodded just enough to convey the truth.

"Why didn't you call me?" she asked.

"And say what? We're back to normal, leave me alone?"

"Maybe it's just a bad day," she suggested as he sat up and she found a spot next to him.

"Don't take the available space as an invitation to stay."

"When did it start? Maybe the pain is from something else. Muscle strain?"

"Three days ago I couldn't go for my run. I tried. That's why I cancelled racquetball and changed our plans for tonight, because I haven't been able to run, and I wanted to avoid a conversation like this one. I thought maybe it would pass. But today…"

"Did you take anything?" she asked, pointing at the orange prescription bottle on the table.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

He looked ahead, avoiding her eyes, "I didn't want to take it."

"If it's this bad, you should take it. We can look into alternatives when you're not already in so much pain."

She went to the kitchen to get water, turning on the light as she returned, only to realize that he had dry swallowed the pill.

"Is there something I can do?" she offered.

"Yes. You can go away."

"Shut up and let me help you."

"There's nothing you can do. Nothing else works, so that means everything will be the same as it used to be. Nothing has changed."

"It doesn't have to be the same, at least not between us. We were friends last week, hell, we were friends _yesterday_. Why can't we be today?"

"I have a feeling that sitting here on my sofa with me while I down Vicodin and scotch is not your ideal way to spend an evening."

"Once in a while we could hang out here, but we could go see a show and throw darts too. Exactly what I already agreed to do tonight before I knew there was a problem. We could still walk at Riverfront when you feel up to it."

"I'm sure you'd find that very exciting."

"You don't think I can have fun unless we're in competition?"

He was leaning forward, pressing into his thigh, clearly uncomfortable. "I _think _I'm in pain."

"Do you want a hot shower?"

He shook his head, "I just got one before you showed up."

She noticed his damp hair for the first time and said, "We just need to wait for the Vicodin to kick in."

"_We_, yea. Hopefully you can manage _your_ pain until then."

She grabbed his hand and pulled it toward her while he watched uncertainly. "Let's talk about something else until the drugs kick in. What band were we going to see tonight?"

"I don't know," he replied, looking down disgruntledly at their hands as she started to massage pressure points.

"I thought you were excited to see them."

He breathed a few times, a bit less tense, and said, "I lied. I wasn't sure who was playing, there's a band every Thursday…I just needed to buy time to figure out if I was really a fucking cripple again."

"I would have enjoyed dinner and some music. Maybe next week?"

House seemed to be evaluating her until, bypassing an answer, he turned on the TV. They sat on his sofa, chatting stiffly during commercials. Observing him as casually as she could, she noticed the pain still evident in his expression even after the medication should have been working. Her prevailing thought was the question of whether the worst of his pain was from his thigh or the disappointment of watching his mobility and freedom slip away from him again. It was as if all of the hope that he hesitantly allowed himself to have turned against him. His defeated uncertainty seemed such a stark contrast to the bold and confident bravado he sometimes displayed. She had grown used to seeing that side of him in recent weeks, but that part of him seemed worlds away and she missed it already.

During a commercial, he mentioned while staring at the TV, "You know Wilson thought tonight was a date? Idiot."

"It's not impossible."

"It's not?"

"I thought it might be a date."

"Why would you think that?"

"I wasn't sure. I thought there was a chance. Dinner, music, drinks…seemed like it could go either way."

"What if it wasn't a date?"

"Then it wasn't a date. But I thought it was possible, I was…open to either option."

"So you said yes… even though you thought it might be a date?"

"Yea," she shrugged, meeting his eyes, "Why not?"

He seemed uncertain how to continue, so he teased, "If it would have actually been a date, which it wasn't, but if it would have been, I totally could have gotten laid."

"Based on our only prior date?"

"Was that a date? Either way, it's a safe assumption, one-hundred percent of the times I tried, I scored."

She laughed quietly, "It's too bad you're being _such_ an ass."

"Why's that?"

"You don't think it would feel good? I mean, whether or not you want to admit that we're friends or that tonight _could_ have actually been a date, I know how you look at me. I'm not that clueless and, to be honest, it's not all that hard to notice."

"I don't-" he scoffed.

"You do," she interrupted. "You do all of the time. It's OK, I don't mind."

"You dress the wrong way for someone who doesn't want to be looked at."

She watched him, listening to the way he snipped back, influenced by frustration, irritation and disappointment. Seeing him like that was physically uncomfortable for her. Only a week before, he was strong, athletic and charming, even the day before, he still had that confidence about him, but it was as if all of the wind had been knocked out of his sails. Every impulse in her wanted to ease the ache that was eating away at him without making him feel pitied.

Trying to hide her concern and empathy, she commented self-assuredly, "I was just thinking about our conversation yesterday about your patient. You said, 'Hormones can make bodies do crazy things.' It's so true…endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine, even cortisone…all of them can help in some way with pain. Not to mention the fact that it just feels good."

"Sex?"

"Yea, sex. The whole series of reactions and responses our bodies have leading up to, during and after sex are perfect for helping us cope with pain."

"You're trying to trick me into saying that it was a date by diverting the blood away from my brain."

"No," she said, standing on the sofa and walking over his legs until she was closer to him. She slowly dropped down until she was hovering just above his lap, facing him. "It would be great if you could actually admit how much you enjoyed our last hook-up. Maybe you could admit that some part of you wouldn't mind doing it again? But whether or not going out tonight was supposed to be a date is unimportant to me right now."

Her one knee met the cushion beside him, but her other leg was braced on her foot, keeping a small distance between them. He looked confused at the sudden proximity of their bodies as a constant conundrum hummed in his mind: honesty, lies or clever deflection. "You're trying to take advantage of the sick?" he asked, opting for deflection.

"I'm not taking _advantage_, you don't have to do anything. Put your hands on the sofa."

He did, after a moment, rest one hand on the arm of the sofa and one along the back. Although he attempted to appear unflustered, she could see the gaps in his disconnected response. Speaking with a voice that didn't divulge his uncertainty, he countered, "I want to make it clear that I'm not following directions…I'm calling your bluff…again."

"But I'm not bluffing," she answered, her lips only an inch from his while her hands went to his shoulders. Her fingers moved softly and slowly down his chest, he had to concentrate just to feel her touch because it was so slight, but the tiny sliver of sensation was decadent. With the feeling of her fingers and the warmth of her body above him, the irritation began slipping away from his face, for a second, and then there seemed to be a moment of panic. "We've kept secrets before," she assured him, "I won't say anything and I don't expect anything. I'll make you feel good."

She didn't understand the look on his face, but he seemed to relax. They were responsible enough to avoid STDs and respectful enough not to put each other at risk, part of an unspoken understanding between them. He must have either trusted her enough to avoid unplanned pregnancy, or he _knew_ they were safe, but she was grateful that he didn't ask any questions or offer any comments. She didn't want to talk about any of it. It was freeing, enjoying sex without worrying about all of the things that she usually had to take into consideration.

Still moving slowly, trying to extend the pleasantness of the moment for as long as she could because he did seem momentarily distracted from his pain, she continued to touch him, her hands moving on his chest and sides, her body pressing carefully against his so he could feel her against him without actively touching her. Removing his shirt, she lifted up so she could pull it over his head and long arms, and he took advantage of her position to grab a nipple with his teeth. Gasping loudly, she reflexively put her fists on his shoulders for balance while she enjoyed the contact for a few seconds before she pulled away.

Even after his mouth was missing from her breast, she could feel the wet spot on the fabric growing cold, reminding her of the warmth that was there so recently. Dropping back down so she was straddling him, her weight mostly on his left leg, her fingers slipped under the elastic of the pajama pants he was wearing. The backs of her fingers pressed into his lower abdomen until she heard his voice with surprising authority, "Wait. I want to look…visual diversion."

He nodded at her shirt and she raised a brow. "Sure," she replied after waiting just long enough for his eyes to look more pleading. "Do you want to take it off, or do you want me to?"

"You do it," he answered and, when she started to back away, he shook his head, "do it here."

Her playful smirk was irrepressible before she turned again into a seductress. That side of her had always been exciting to him, her sexuality was usually unapologetic, but the reality of her actively tantalizing him was his fantasy incarnate. She pulled off her shirt with grace, her body shifting effortlessly as she removed the garment before she settled closer to him.

His eyes poured over her shoulders and the upper part of her chest, settling on the breasts that were encased in a pure white bra. The color was the only thing that was innocent, the garment displayed the near perfection of her body, the lace offering the slightest glimpses at the skin tones and shapes beneath, and he groaned, "Oh god, you look…it _was_ a date. You thought it was a date."

"If I was sure it was a date I would have worn something sexier," she teased, watching his eyes widen with doubt that such an item of clothing existed. "Do you like it?"

Looking up for only a moment to find her eyes, he answered as if under unbreakable oath, "It's perfect. You…you are still…," he seemed to search for words and finally surrendered to something that was so much less than what he thought he should say, "you are…hot."

"Want me to leave it on?"

While she spoke, her hands slid down his stomach again. His light pajamas and loose boxers did little to obscure his obvious erection, there was no hiding his body's interest. His reaction to her was addictive, she couldn't help but feel beautiful and powerful as she sat in front of him. The palm of her hand pressed against his sex and she felt him immediately lift toward her, his mask of indifference was slipping away, and he didn't even seem to care.

"I want you to take it off," he said as if he'd been carefully weighing her offer.

Arching her back, her breasts in front of his face, she unclasped her bra and allowed it to fall forward. The straps hung on her shoulders and she tempted, "Want to help?"

His mind again considered the possibilities of honesty, lies or deflection. Deflection when he was so close to the object of his desire seemed a ridiculous option, so he shook his head, "I'll watch."

"OK," she shrugged, pulling the straps of her bra down until her arms were free.

His eyes were honed on her, wanting to catch the first available glimpse so that he could enjoy every possible moment. Letting go, the bra fell forward, landing between them until she pulled it from his lap and tossed it to the side. "Is it too late to tell you it was a date?" he questioned.

Giggling with feminine allure, she answered, "Are you upset that you didn't get to see something that you're already looking at?"

"Sex after a date is hotter than a pity fuck."

"This isn't a pity fuck," she said, lifting his chin with her finger, "and I don't know about you, but…it feels pretty damn hot to me."

Moving closer, her peaked nipples moved against his chest, he was staring down at her body touching his, making no attempt to hide his fascination in the least. If they were going to do this, he was going to enjoy it. She pressed her body even closer, rising up on her knees so their torsos were tightly against each other. His hands were still on the back and arm of the sofa, but she had no idea the concentration it took to keep them there.

While she was raised, she reached between them and opened the button on her jeans and slid down the zipper. At the exact moment when she was going to settle back down in his lap, she froze because he buried his face against her. She could feel his breath against the skin of her neck and shoulder as he moved, and she felt his lips dotting kisses along the spots he could reach. Her arms wrapped around him in response, her hand cupping the back of his head to hold him close. The next sensation she felt was the way his tongue worked the spot below her ear, something he probably remembered from their one encounter years earlier, but it affected her no less than it did then.

She moaned softly, feeling the twinging pulse and surging wetness between her legs in addition to her already heightened state of arousal. Although she tried to ignore the fact that things were getting unmanageable, it was already too late to try to control them anymore. This was becoming increasingly as much about her needs as it was about his. His hands left their respective perches because he could feel the strength of her response to him and he no longer cared about any self-imposed restraint. They were feeding off of each other's reaction and desire, each encouraged by the effect they had on the other and being subsequently more turned on because of it. They were gaining momentum as they began tumbling toward each other unfettered.

She felt his hands force their way into the back of her jeans, and he immediately palmed her ass, grasping desirous handfuls of her body while pulling her closer to him. The boundaries were unclear, completely undefined because they were unsure if they were simply being casual or if there was something more complicated going on, so she pulled her neck away from his mouth and brought her lips closer to his. They were barely touching, both of their mouths slightly open. Their breath collided as they panted more desperately, their lips occasionally brushing because of the way they breathed, and then she tossed aside her reservation and caught his upper lip between hers. Any uncertainty about how he would react to a kiss was obliterated when he met her, his tongue moving into her mouth so that some part of him could be in her body.

The escalation continued unhindered until she slinked back from him and stood on the floor in front of the sofa. She needed a moment, a chance to regain her bearings. The intention still was to make the encounter last, to allow his pain, whether physical or emotional, to be kept at bay for as long as possible, but now she personally was invested in making it last, in prolonging everything for herself as well because everything felt so different and exciting but fleeting.

Once she stood back, she could see how disheveled he was in every way possible. Wiggling out of her jeans, she let them fall to the floor, exposing the white panties that matched the bra that had almost made him drool. With her hips swaying, she approached him, watching him move his arms back out to his sides, welcoming her return.

She stooped in front of him, pulling his boxers and pajamas down at the same time, watching him hesitate before she exposed his scar. Leaning forward, her mouth met his in a demanding, lusty and devoted kiss, trying to make him forget. She grabbed his hand and directed it to her breast. He eagerly took the suggestion, rolling her nipple between his fingers and they sighed together into each other's mouths. She backed away once she was sure he was invested again, carefully pulling the clothing away from his sore thigh before kicking the clothes away with her foot while she climbed back on him.

As soon as she was against him again, he reached between her legs, pressing against her sex and feeling the damp fabric. His patience waned, so he pulled the barrier to the side and slid his long fingers between her folds. "Turned on?" he asked with a look that was smug, confident and completely arousing.

"I told you I thought this was hot," she volleyed back with her own smug self-assuredness, "I'm not ashamed. You think you're hiding the fact that you want me?" she asked, pressing her inner thigh against the evidence of his desire and listening to a tiny, nearly undetectable groan.

"I don't think I'm hiding anything," he answered with clarity.

Momentarily taken aback, she searched for the cause of his sincerity, her lips already slightly parted as she moistened them with her tongue. While she thought, he pressed two fingers unexpectedly into her and watched while she gasped, her eyes closed and mouth opened a little wider. After allowing his fingers to move languidly in and out of her body, he felt her hips rocking, so he put a hand on her side so he could feel her body hypnotically moving in time with his touch.

She rested her head against his shoulder before she moved her face to his neck, feeling the stubbled skin below his jaw against her lips. Her words were hotly whispered against his ear, "Are you trying to make it look like I'm taking advantage of you?"

Looking at him when he didn't answer, she used both of her hands to start slowly jerking him off. "No," he whispered back, "you're practically naked in my lap. I'd never respect myself in the morning if I didn't attempt to fully appreciate that." She attempted a giggle, one lost in soft pants and growing desire, and he added, his lips skimming hers, "but your panties need to go."

His fingers abandoned her heat, and he directed her upward so she was standing on the cushion next to him, her balance unsteady. She leaned on his shoulder while he helped her step out of the last article of clothing on her body. Once they were gone, he lifted her leg to move it to his other side, so she was once again straddling him. Before she could slink back down, he grabbed her hips and pulled her forward, his tongue slipping against her sex, tasting her while the opportunity presented itself. His tongue curled around her clit for a split second before slipping away so that he could find her again. His touch was patient but direct as he savored the flavor of her. Her palms rested on his head, helping her to remain balanced since her feet were planted on the shifting cushions. She was easily getting lost, allowing her focus to be shaken by the way his mouth lured her.

Gathering her will, she pulled away, moving back down into his lap. Her hands took his face, drawing him closer while her kiss conveyed exactly how deep her willingness ran. "I'm supposed to be the one making _you_ feel good," she reminded.

"You are."

He lifted them both while he slouched down on the sofa. They were each tightly wound with tension and anticipation, and further postponement felt impossible. She felt his hand move between them to guide his almost desperate cock into her. Sitting up, her eyes squinted shut and her jaw tensed while she allowed her body to experience the thick heat of him entering her, his body pleading for the access she'd granted him. Her hands rested on his ribs while she moved gingerly at first, allowing the initial stinging ache to fully give way to the intense satisfaction of joining bodies.

He began to counter her moves, to help their bodies meet, but she shook her head and instructed with the voice of a woman who had caved to her own desires, "Just relax…let me do it."

For a while, he did. He watched her body move, her face react; he felt the beauty, power and sensuality she exhibited. It was the best combination of visual and tactile stimulation all at once. His body tightened and filled with weighty need until not moving with her became nearly impossible. Every part of him wanted to offer her equal pleasure in return, to make sure that she was equally stimulated and finding every bit as much satisfaction from their unity. Before she could protest, he grabbed her hips, plunged deeply inside her and held her still while he said, "Making you feel good, hearing you moan," he separated their bodies before burying himself fully inside of her again, "does make me feel good."

She suddenly met his gaze, sighing an unspoken compliment. As they began to collaboratively move, they found a thought-numbing and erotic dance. They enjoyed each other's bodies during each moment together. Both were sensual people, mutually attracted, more than willing to allow themselves to enjoy the fullness of the experience, but there was also a sense of competition that seemed to underscore everything about their friendship. They each wanted to be the most memorable lover, each wanted to make the other crave them, each wanted to make the other shudder uncontrollably and the protections they both clung to so desperately were getting lost in the rush.

He knew she was going to come by the way her motion was less smooth and more desperate, by the way it seemed her whole body clung to him, and he dropped the mental control he was trying to maintain because they were growing close to completion. He moved her body for her, prolonging their rhythm for as long as he could until his body and mind short-circuited into orgasmic oblivion with her. They didn't call each other's names at the height of passion, in a frantic moment when their minds forgot their boundaries and said something on impulse. She sighed his name, something said with intention, affection and gratitude, and he panted her name in return, before she kissed him after most of the pulses of climax had faded. He returned her kiss in a way that was sated, warm and equally appreciative.

She let her body relax on his. He was still inside of her, neither too eager to snap out of what they had done to face the consequences that awaited them. Her fingers were idly moving against his chest. His one hand was holding onto her ass, still keeping her in place against him, but the other glided along the shape of her back. "God, House," she said in a sleepy voice as she melted into him, enjoying the oddly relaxed closeness they were allowing. She looked up, finding him not asleep, but staring right into her eyes, she could see the feelings on his face, the admiration between them, but he remained quiet. She stopped biting her lip long enough to say, "Thank you. You're amazing."

"You too," he responded quietly, looking away.

He seemed to be contemplating something, and then he patted her ass and helped her up. Standing slowly, because his leg was already angry from holding the position they found and remained in for too long. His tone was professional, as if he was explaining a carefully researched, strategic position, "We shouldn't have had sex out here. To correct this, we should have sex in my bed, so afterwards we can fall asleep and it won't kill my leg."

"It hurts already?" she asked with worry.

"Probably always a little, now that things are back to normal, but you missed the point," he said, waving his hand to direct her back to his room. "Staying?"

She was completely naked as she walked down the hall, a few steps in front of him, summoning him with body language. He tilted his head and stared at the way her ass looked while she sauntered enticingly to his bedroom. Turning around once she reached the bed, he saw the rest of her, the entire front of her body still comfortably naked in front of him. "Actually," he said as he studied her, "My leg is killing me…_right now_." He added, attempting to sound weak, "Help."

She giggled, enjoying his response to her body as she saw how he was looking at her.

With a slow but decisive limp, he went to his bed, flinging a heavier blanket to the side to make room for her. He joined her, rolling her onto her back so he could settle between her legs. "You should stay all night. Because I definitely feel intense pain right now. I have this feeling like it may flare up again…likely in the morning, but maybe sooner. So hard to tell when a moment may strike."

"I'm happy to offer my services."

"So am I," he replied with approval while his hands roamed her body. "If you're here for the night, I'm going to take all of the _help_ I can get."

* * *

He woke earlier than normal, guessing it was probably just after sunrise. His leg ached, the disappointment of what was lost and found and then lost again rested on his chest like an anvil. The cycle of lost-found-lost again applied equally to his leg and Cuddy, and he realized that, in a span of hours, he'd lost both again. He'd hoped for one more encounter, one more blissful round of sex with the partner who often consumed his fantasies, but it was too late. He heard her showering, assuming that she woke and wanted to wash away the previous night from her body and memory as well.

Standing slowly, irritated that his mornings were once again about the gnarling ache that he felt so often, he went to the living room for his Vicodin. As he swallowed a tablet, he wondered if the bitter taste of the pill was welcomed or dreaded, but there seemed little he could do but return to what was. He heard the water shut off in the shower and felt some dread at whatever the next few moments would bring. All night he held her, felt what it was like to be in her, against her, felt her lips and affectionate touches, and now they'd have to find a way to be as they were, no matter how much he wanted them to be something different. He pulled his pajama bottoms back on as the bathroom door opened, and he waited.

"What are you doing up already?" she asked.

He held up his orange bottle and shook it as he faced his piano. "Morning ritual."

"I thought we were going to do some diversion therapy this morning."

He turned, finding her standing in the entrance to the living room in a towel, offering an alluring gaze. "I figured you were leaving," he replied.

"You want me to go now?"

"You were up, already in the shower."

"I thought I'd be back in bed before you woke up."

"You were getting a shower…to get back in bed?"

"Yea, I just wanted to clean up," she answered, walking closer, and dropping her towel, "I was coming back. Unless you want me to go?"

"No," he answered as soon as his brain comprehended. His hand reached out for the narrowest part of her waist, the pads of his fingers studying her skin.

Stepping against him, she reached up and kissed his chin, "Wanna go back to bed?"

"One more for the road?"

"Why _one_ more?"

He took her hand and began limping back to his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed and standing her in front of him, he said, "Thank you for last night. It was nice of you."

"_Nice_ of me? What's going on? I…had a great time. I would like to have more great times."

"You already told me what's going on. We're casual, keeping secrets, not having expectations. Your words."

She shrugged, "I said that, yes. But last night…made me rethink what I thought. I don't know. I was up early this morning and I've really been considering what this all means."

"You don't have to act like it's more than what it is."

"What is it? According to you?"

"You felt bad for me. You don't have to. I'm fine. Things can go back to normal."

"Is that what you want? _N__ormal_?"

"Just because my leg hurts doesn't mean I'm some pathetic-"

"Stop," she answered immediately, shaking her head, "You are _not_ pathetic. Last night wasn't about pity. Sure, I wanted to make you feel better…that was part of it, I admit that, but I wanted you. I have for a while. We've had a lot of fun lately as friends, but we have this…nagging, persistent attraction between us that I don't think we can ignore. The last few weeks I've been considering asking you out…beyond our Thursday night thing."

"Considering…but you didn't."

"Because I didn't want to mess up what we had. We care about each other. Or at least…I care about you. Maybe I shouldn't make assumptions. I don't know what you felt, but I…felt something last night. I still do."

"You know how I feel about you."

"I do?"

He looked up, his eyes were clear and bright but somehow sadder for their brilliance. He repeated firmly, "You _know_ how I feel about you."

Unwaveringly looking into him, the truth that hung between them screamed his answer. "Me too," she said as her voice cracked between a whisper and actual vocalization.

"What do you want to do, Cuddy?"

"Do you want to come to my place tonight after work so we can drink some wine and try this new recipe I got from my sister? Then, if you're amenable to such things, we can have sex on my kitchen table. Or somewhere similar…my place is pretty big."

She was smiling, but he still seemed hesitant, "You want a fuck buddy?"

"I thought last night was a _date_, remember? Are you still denying it?" she teased. "Look," she began earnestly, "in a way, we've been dating these last few weeks, even if we haven't called it that. I think we should, you know…call it that."

"My leg isn't better. It won't be better. Do you really get what that means?"

"I'm _so_ sorry about your leg, but there are specialists we can see-"

"And when we find out the _specialists _can't do anything? I'm gimpy for life?"

"If that's the case, we are really good at diversion therapy," she suggested salaciously. "I like you…as you are. We're remarkably good together in _and_ out of bed. So why not?"

"Because it could all go horribly wrong?"

"We can't let it. I don't want to refuse to live my life because I'm afraid something will go wrong. Let's do this, do it with me." When he was silent for too long, she prompted, "Thoughts? Questions? Snide retorts? Blatant rejections? Give me something here, House."

"I want to do this. However…I don't see any reason why we should stop competing. I think that, over the course of twenty-four hours, I can get you off more times than you can get me off," he challenged.

She contemplated his statement, smiling through her efforts at seriousness, "I am…_remarkably_ OK with you winning that competition. But I'm a stickler for details, I'll need proof."

He wrapped his arms around her and leaned back on the bed until she was on top of him. "I was hoping you'd say that."

She giggled while his mouth moved along her collarbone. "Let's try this out without having to pretend like it's meaningless. Come over tonight."

He pulled back so he could make eye contact, and, with a subtly pleased but serious expression, he replied, "It's a date."

**-The End-**

* * *

Here is a shortened version of the original prompt (Thanks, Megalisa, I hope you liked how I used your prompt!) _- Set in S3. House and Cuddy get closer from their banter/flirting and start having fun but one night when they had plans, House is a no show. She's worried since he doesn't answer his cell and he's never stood her up once since they started their current 'friendship' outside of work, so she goes to him and finds him in pain. She helps him and they end up spending the night sleeping together. What begins as a way to soothe him turns into pleasure for both and a mutual thing that's more than they even realize. _


End file.
